Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (8 page)

Kerney parked on the street and walked between tightly packed rows of cars to the office. It was unoccupied. At the far corner of the lot, a portly older man was talking to a young Hispanic couple and gesturing at a black Pontiac Firebird with a customized paint job. He spied Kerney and waved. Kerney waved back and waited, his attention drawn to the angry yellow sky.

The evening winds were kicking up a dust storm on the desert beyond the river valley. Billowing plumes of sand diffused the sunlight, creating a false sense of coolness. It was still hot as hell and dry as a bone, but the clouds told of a big blow and the promise of rain sometime soon.

As a boy Kerney had stretched his imagination in those clouds, even as he learned to read them from his father, who ranched with one eye on the stock and the other on the weather. The salesman walked the young couple to their car, talking vigorously and pointing back at the Firebird. The man shook his hand, got the girl in the car, and drove away. Kerney met the salesman halfway across the lot.

He was a roly-poly fellow with a chubby face burned bright pink by the sun.

"How you doing today?" The man asked, extending his hand.

"I'm Dewey Boursard." Kerney identified himself and showed Boursard his badge.

"My lot boy said the police had called here a while ago. I was picking up a new battery at the time. He doesn't speak very good English, so he didn't tell me very much."

"Do you remember a soldier by the name of Sammy Yazzi who wanted to buy a Toyota?" Dewey smiled.

"Almost closed the deal. He was interested in a nice little Toyota subcompact. Came in twice to look at it. Second time I knocked the price down a little and he gave me a hundred dollars in earnest money to hold it until he could arrange financing.

"I sure thought I had a sale. Those Army boys don't get paid enough to give up a hundred dollars that easy. I held that car way past the delivery date. Cherry little vehicle. Low mileage. One owner. I even tried to call him at the base to let him know I'd finance the contract myself if he was having trouble getting a loan."

"Did you get through to him?"

"No. I left a message. He never called back."

"Do you still have the car?" Dewey smiled and shook his head.

"That puppy sold real fast. A college kid from the university bought it. I advertise in the student newspaper. Get a lot of my business from the kids out there."

"Did he ever drive the vehicle?"

"Both times he was here," Dewey replied.

"The second time he came in, he brought a buddy along with him."

"Tell me about the buddy," Kerney invited. Dewey pursed his lips.

"I didn't catch his name. He was a black man. A little shorter than you. Maybe six feet tall. He looked to be twenty-five or so, I'd guess. Had an East Coast accent. A mechanic."

"Why do you say that?"

"He drove a '68 Ford Mustang he restored himself. I offered to buy it. Mint condition. Real collector's car."

"That doesn't make him a mechanic."

"He knew cars. Went over that Toyota real careful-like. I think he tagged along to check the Toyota out for his friend. I'll bet you a dollar to a doughnut he's a wrench jockey at the missile range."

"What makes you think so?" Dewey held out both hands, palms down. His nails were dull and dingy.

"Grease," he explained.

"I do all the minor work on my inventory. Saves a few dollars. You never get that gunk completely cleaned off. His hands looked worse than mine. Stuffs like dye almost."

"Anything else?"

"He had a base vehicle sticker on the Mustang."

"Do you remember what kind?"

"Enlisted personnel. I see a lot of those on trade ins "Did Sammy talk to you about anything besides the Toyota?"

"Not that I recall," Dewey answered. He changed his mind quickly. "As a matter of fact, he did. I thought he wanted to use an old Chevy for part of his down payment. We'd talked about it the first time he came in. Wasn't worth much, but I could wholesale it and make a few bucks. When I asked, he said the black guy was gonna buy it."

"Thanks for your time." Dewey smiled and glanced at Kerney's truck.

"No problem. If you want to sell that truck, bring it by for an appraisal. If it runs good, I can sell it in a week. Lot of people can't afford the new ones. I could move a dozen late-model trucks a month if I had them. They go like hotcakes."

"I'll keep that in mind," Kerney said. *** The dust storm intensified near the mountains that separated the missile range from the rest of the world. An updraft blew sand against the rear window with a faint hissing sound. Kerney topped out at the San Andres Pass. The Tularosa Basin was hidden from view by a grimy sky. He turned off the highway onto the access road to the missile range and checked the time. His twenty-four hours had expired. Captain Sara Brannon wouldn't be any too pleased at his checking in late, but maybe new information just might cut him some slack.

Sara found an MP buttoned up in his patrol vehicle in front of her house. The dust storm whipped sand at her face that felt like so many hot pinpricks. She took a packet from him, hurried into the house, and went immediately to the bedroom, trailing sand along the way. She dropped the envelope on the bed, stripped off her uniform, and stood under a hot shower, letting the water soak away the dryness. If she stayed in the desert much longer, she thought, she would shrivel up and blow away. If not that, she'd have skin like shoe leather. Naked in front of the bathroom mirror, she worked body lotion into her skin, rubbed on some face cream, and brushed her hair dry.

Dressed in a tank top, cutoff jeans, and a pair of flats, she took the envelope into the living room and checked for messages on the answering machine. Fred Utiey had called to invite her to a movie at the post theater. He continued to show romantic interest in her, and she wished he would just chill out. In a way, it was her own damn fault for sleeping with him once when she couldn't think of a good reason not to. She'd call him back and decline.

A second message, from one of the investigators assigned to follow Kerney, got her full attention. Kerney was back on base asking to speak to her after spending hours at the sheriff's department in Las Cruces, and then interviewing a salesman at a used car dealership. The investigator's partner was talking to the salesman and would report as soon as he returned. She reached for the phone, hesitated, and took her hand off the receiver. Fred could wait, and Kerney could cool his heels for a while.

Curling up on the couch, she opened the envelope. It contained an FBI report on Kerney and a memorandum to her from the post historian. Setting the memorandum aside, she read the FBI report. Kerney had been born at home on the 7-Bar-K Ranch east of Tularosa, New Mexico, on land now part of the missile range. A year younger than his high school classmates, he had graduated as valedictorian and won the state high school rodeo championship in his senior year. Taking a heavy load in college, he had earned his degree in three years, finishing in the top 10 percent of his class. His parents, Matthew and Mary, had been killed in a head-on automobile accident while driving to Albuquerque to meet Kerney upon his return from duty in Vietnam.

Sara skimmed his military service record, pausing to read the Silver Star citation. Kerney had led an extraction team into VC territory, encountered heavy enemy resistance, and successfully brought out a downed fighter pilot. After returning home, Kerney had enrolled in graduate school at the university in Albuquerque and married a woman who was a first-year law school student. In less than a year, the marriage had ended, and Kerney had quit school to join the Santa Fe Police Department.

Sara wondered what had happened to precipitate so much change so quickly in Kerney's life. The report finished with a summary of Kerney's law enforcement experience. Rising rapidly through the ranks, Kerney had been a prime candidate to become the next police chief until he was badly wounded and forced to retire.

Sara dropped the report on the cushion, rummaged through the bookcase for a map of the missile range, and spread it out on the carpet. The location of the old 7-Bar-K Ranch, identified clearly on the map, was almost within shouting distance of Sammy Yazzi's duty station. Sara's eyes wandered over the topographical symbols. Where in hell had Sammy Yazzi gone? Through Seep Canyon? Tip Top Canyon? He had stayed on the restricted road that crossed the basin to the small ranching settlement at Engle, but trackers had lost all sign of him at the entrance to Rhodes Canyon, still deep in the missile range. Sara knew Yazzi hadn't used Rhodes Canyon as an escape route. He would have been spotted by personnel stationed at the secret observation post that guarded the pass. And most probably he had not traveled through Engle.

Every inhabitant, including the area ranchers, had been interviewed, with no reported sightings. So Sammy had skirted the canyon, but none of the intrusion sensors on the base perimeter had picked him up. The search and rescue teams she'd sent in had scoured the immediate area for his body with no luck. As her eyes drifted back to the 7-Bar-K Ranch symbol on the map, the telephone rang. Not wanting to talk to Fred, she let the answering machine click on and didn't pick up until she recognized the watch commander's voice.

"What is it?"

"That sheriff's lieutenant is still waiting to see you," the voice replied.

"Send him over," she said. She put the report in her briefcase-she would finish it later-walked to the patio door that led to the backyard, and watched the wind spatter sand against the glass. The branches of a lone willow tree bent and jerked in the force of the gale. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door, made a face, and went to change into something less informal.

Kerney slipped inside as Sara Brannon closed the door behind him, blinking his eyes and rubbing sand from his face. The short walk from his truck to the front porch made him feel as if he had been sandblasted. The weather had turned ferocious. Sara said nothing as she ushered him to the living room through the hall that divided a galley kitchen and dining nook from the main part of the house. In the living room another small corridor took a left turn to the bedrooms and bath. The house, a utilitarian cement-block structure, would have been depressing if not for Sara's good taste. A wicker chair with a matching ottoman served as a reading niche next to an oak bookcase. The chair faced the patio door to the backyard. On the top shelf of the bookcase were framed family photographs.

Sara gestured for Kerney to sit in a second easy chair that matched an expensive tan couch. She arranged herself at the corner of the couch by an end table that held a lamp, telephone, and answering machine. On the floor in front of a low coffee table was an open map.

"I expected to hear from you before now," she said. She wore jeans, a red short-sleeved turtleneck top, and sandals, and sat with one leg tucked under the other.

"I wanted to have something to say first," Kerney countered.

"Fair enough. What have you got?" Kerney started talking, and Sara listened for anything that would contradict the reports she'd received from the surveillance teams. He gave it to her straight, including his curiosity about Bull McVay and the surprising fact, unknown to Sara before Kerney's arrival, that Sergeant Steiner had let Sammy do pencil sketches on his free time without getting proper authorization. She paid even closer attention when Kerney briefed her on his conversation with Dewey Boursard-that was fresh information that had yet to come to her from the team.

He concluded with a smile and added: "I'm sure none of this is news to you. Your people have been with me every step of the way."

"What tipped you?"

"The cars. Same make and model. Plus your men are sloppy on the shift changeovers. They like to chit-chat with each other before they make the switch," He got up, stepped around the coffee table, and bent over the map.

"Show me where you searched for Sammy." She joined him, sat on the floor, and gave him a rundown, watching for a reaction as she traced her finger past the 7-Bar-K Ranch location. There was none.

"Were there any visitors up range at the time of his disappearance?" he inquired when she stopped.

"Nobody who wasn't authorized and cleared."

"Any ideas where he went to do his sketching?"

"None at all."

"What did the Jaeger autopsy reveal?" Kerney asked, moving the map aside.

"Jaeger's blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit," Sara replied.

"He had a clean record-no disciplinary action, no history of substance abuse, and no DWI arrests."

"And the Camaro?"

"Clean as a whistle. The only mechanical damage was caused during the accident."

"So much for statistical probabilities."

The phone rang, and Sara went to answer it. With her back to him, she listened without comment for several minutes, thanked the caller, hung up, and swiveled her head in his direction.

"We've found your man," she said.

"The Mustang is owned by Specialist Fifth Class Weldon Robinson. He supervises the post auto shop." Kerney smiled broadly.

"Your people work fast." Sara wrinkled her nose at him.

"Come on," she said, getting to her feet. "Let's go talk to Robinson."

The Post Auto Shop, in an old Quonset hut near the motor pool, served as a do-it-yourself center for shade-tree mechanics. The building was locked, but the inside lights were on, and through a window Kerney saw a Mustang parked over a service bay. He pounded on the door while Sara huddled for cover from the strong gusts of wind that made the outside light above the door flap precariously.

Kerney kept pounding until a surly-looking black man climbed out of the service bay, came to the window, and pointed at a closed sign. Robinson's name was stitched over the right pocket of his fatigue shirt.